Fighting is eating in the middle of night. It’s crying as my hair continues to fall out, despite the nourishment I’m finally giving myself. It’s living in a gassy, bloated, and constipated body as my digestive system repairs itself. It is forcing myself out the door to have coffee with a friend, when all I want to do is hide under my comforter. It’s facing the fact that I have to grow up, that I can’t stay a child forever. It’s smiling when the doctor congratulates me on my weight gain, only to leave his office in tears, mentally formulating